It
came first with the rain we had forgottenIn the morning, I
stepped out
into the air’s ozone and sagethe scent of the creosote
bush deepening the
birds’ twitters from the palm
Orange blossoms drifted
memories across the city

Mesquites blushed honey
flowers
and I rode with a friendtop down along the wide boulevards
We’d eaten
shrimp grilled in lime
in the back yard evening Our Midwestern bodies
flushed with this double fever The first in
February when the air warms The second
surely safe now at ninety degrees
when the desert flowers

The
Light

The
days were blown out bright whitesun continually bleaching my
perceptionuntil a dark room was a reprievethat my body
sighed and sunk intoshelter from the 360 days without
weatherNo temperature on the bank clocksno seasons to
mark the time passingno arcs of trees overheadto cradle
us to the earth

Metal

Streets
of shadow boxes—the twisted iron forms of a strong
man and a saguaro guarding claw foot tubs glistening
in showroom low light. Gallery fronted with
teeth of silver flame. Inside, a motor-cycle gang of
metal crows made from the bodies of cars.I remember usas
reflections in the plate glass,faces held in barred
silence.

Hannah
Haas teaches creative writing and composition at Indiana
University-Purdue University Indianapolis. She received her B.A.
from Indiana University and her M.F.A. from the University of
Arizona’s Creative Writing Program. Her work has
appeared in journals such as ACM and Folio.